


Crusades

by SynWrites



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Angst and Humor, Blood and Gore, F/F, Fantasy, Fluff and Angst, Graphic Description, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Non-Graphic Violence, Period-Typical Homophobia, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Religious Conflict, Religious Guilt, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2018-12-11 08:14:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11710419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SynWrites/pseuds/SynWrites
Summary: When Fareeha's land falls into famine and illness, they seek the most powerful weapon of their enemies to redeem them.Mercy is the begrudging assister to an army of divine inspiration. And yet the angel's life is once again reinvented when her abilities are exploited by her people's enemies.Will she return to those who made her who she is, who've forced her to watch men slaughter themselves in droves? Or remain in the hands of those using her for their own gain for the sake of an innocent citizen population?idk man read it if you wanna find out





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> Look familiar? Lol yeah because its basically the same intro as my old fanfic The Crusades
> 
> Why is this so? Well because I'm reworking the old story so it actually.. you know.. makes sense WHOOPS
> 
> Anyhow, if you've read the original story, welcome back! And if not.. enjoy yourself? 
> 
> Next chapter should be posted before tomorrow, as the chapters from the old fic are just being cleaned up and edited

     It was a sight she’d never quite get used to. Men raising their swords to one another, bringing red spatter and pained grunts with every downward motion of a blade. There are too many to fix, and even soaring atop the battle field she becomes rattled, which direction to head first and which ailments to cure. Only a few hours into the war has she found that it is impossible to help them all. Men will die under her care and there is nothing to be done. Angela heals the strong, those who could take down ten in the time it’d take another to dispose of two. “Cutting their losses” she’d heard it referred to as. It makes her sick, these well meaning humans fighting for a cause she didn’t know if they understood

     “Mercy!” She recognizes the commander’s voice, and the angel reels, eyes scrambling to find the man. Below Angela swells a sea of humans. Its then that an arrow grazes her thigh, and she grits her teeth as red seeps through her robes. Feathers fall from above as another arrow whizzed past, nearly clipping her wing but only dislodging some plumage. “Mercy look out!” Its frantic this time, and she yells in frustration.

     “Mein Gott! I know! Give me a se-“ Angela hushes the human just as her breath is stolen. Before her mind can comprehend the moment, she is tossed from the sky, flailing wings beat as they helplessly scramble for flight. Her chest is concave in shape, or so she’d swear it feels. With little more than a grunt, she finds herself wading in the hot sands of the desert. Her staff lays lamely a few feet away, the dull ring of silver that usually hangs over her head tossed just as haphazardly in the dust.

     She feels herself falling away, and slowly Angela slips into unconsciousness, the sounds of a battle still being waged a few miles off echoing through the plains.

* * *

 

     Pharah has been more proud of little else in her time. Seeing the angle plummet from the sky in a flurry of feathers and flame had sent a cheer throughout her comrades. Time and time again had they tried a barrage of arrows, to ground and swarm the being, but no sharpshooter fast enough nor any man strong enough seemed to contain the winged beast. But of course Pharah had managed to pluck the angel from the sky, but had no way of controlling where she'd land. Now comes the task of finding the winged being, which no one else had opted to do.

     Her horse walks slowly behind the soldier as she tugs the reins, leading him around as she follows a trail of burnt white feathers. The sun sets teasingly behind her, and Pharah thinks it mocks her as every minute it gets closer to its hour of rest. Meanwhile her armor makes an unfortunate clicking sound as she walks, and her hands still feel bloody under her gloves. With every feather she finds she can feel herself becoming slightly more bitter. She stumbles upon the staff first, and straps it to one of the packs on her steed’s flank. It was an awe inspiring item in itself, the perfect white metal that glinted even in the dimming light of dusk. Finding the angel, Pharah could hardly bite down her surprise.

     The female was still asleep, and she crept around her silently to ensure she stayed that way. “I’ve found you,” she whispered, mostly to herself. She studied the wings, nearly 30 feet of pure white feathers from tip to tip, for the exception of those that’d been charred by her catapult. In some places there were no feathers at all, only raw red skin that seemed to infect the white around it with an ugly crimson stain. Her face was expressionless, almost content. Disheveled golden hair fell around her face from a pony tail that was holding on to its last limb. Her skin was white, almost suspiciously so, Pharah thought. As if when it were touched it'd crumble like parchment, or crack like porcelain. But being a soldier, Fareeha was much more enamored by the woman's armor. A shining white breastplate made of the same material she'd seen on the staff, sleeves accented with an iridescent golden orange that seemed almost molten by its glow. With tall black boots inlaid with the same shimmering colors and a skirt that vaguely reminded Fareeha of something she'd seen painted on a vase from Greece. She hated to admit it, but this attire was quite simply divine in its craftsmanship. 

     Pharah gingerly prodded the woman’s side with her boot. No movement. “If this were not war,” she removed a length of rope from her horse’s flank, “I would feel bad for doing such things to a creature as beautiful as yourself.” After some time and more awkward adjusting than she’d like to admit, Fareeha was able to tie the angel’s wings closed. She couldn’t fly, and it was doubtful that she could outrun a horse.

     Fareeha is prepared to stay the night. She isn’t keen on traveling the sands in the dark, and the trek back to the city is long and treacherous enough in the day. Beasts lurk at night, fiends she’d rather not have the pleasure of meeting. Sitting with a grunt, she pulls the firewood she’s taken from her packs and began to build a flame.

     The fire flickers to life after a few moments and it was then that the soldier realizes she is being watched by two silver-blue orbs.


	2. Judgement

Pharah jumps to her feet, holding her sword to Angela’s face with a sneer. “How long have you been awake?” She glares down at the woman with narrowed eyes. No matter how she tries her voice still sounds rattled, as being watched by a celestial being without permission isn’t something she finds comforting.   
Glowing orbs watch the soldier curiously, before looking around as if she could actually gain an idea of where she is from the dunes they were surrounded by. “Not long,” the angel answers after a moment. Her brows knit together in confusion. “Who.. are you?” The question is pronounced carefully, and Fareeha has just this moment to take in the woman’s strange accent. She doesn’t believe angels come from places, but she’s heard this accent from travelers coming from the far north.   
It is now then that the blonde woman’s expression suddenly changes. Her mind has cleared from the fog it’d been encased in, and she realizes fear is something appropriate to the situation. Kicking her boots, she gives a weak attempt to stand. Her wings try to flare instinctively, and she cries in pain when the ropes bite into the burned flesh.   
“Do not struggle.” It is an order. This much Mercy can tell. Deep brown eyes stare down from the slit on a painted blue helm. It covers most of her captor’s face, leaving her only privy to a mouth and jaw. Despite her growing quickly contempt for the woman holding her hostage, Mercy abides by the order, ceasing her struggle and sending a blue eyed glare up at her. “I am Pharah, Daughter of Anna Amari, and a patron of the Goddess Menhit.”   
She tries not to snort in response. Of course, she is being held captive by the hedonistic pagans of the dunes. Pharah stares for a moment before lowering her sword, placing it back in its scabbard. “I can see the look on your face,” the soldier warns, and Mercy gives her a look as if to dare her to do something about it. “I would not be so insolent. My people have little tolerance for… creatures such as yourself.” Removing her helm, she places it upon the sand beside her. The fire illuminates her face, and Mercy stares for a long moment at the tattoo under the woman’s eye.   
“...creatures,” Angela grumbles to herself, too low for the other to hear. She watches as the other tears into a piece of jerky she’s produced from a pouch. “Why am I here?”   
Pharah stares for a moment, opening her mouth before deciding she doesn’t have to answer that question. The uncertainty on her face leaves the angel’s head tilted in suspicion.   
Continuing to eat her jerky, Fareeha waits a long while before piping up. “Do you eat?” The soldier asks.   
“Do I eat?” Angela echoes incredulously. Fareeha nods, as if to prove she’s serious about the question. With a sigh, she nods, “yes, of course I eat.” What did they think angels lived off of? Prayers? Light? Angela had no idea what ran through these people’s minds.   
The soldier drops a lone piece of jerky in front of Mercy, and the woman picks off every last bit of sand with a dead look in her eye. As far as days went, this one hasn’t gone as planned.   
Mercy eats her jerky silently. Fareeha toys with a loose string on her sleeve silently. “You… do not do this very often, do you?” The angel mutters, finishing her pathetic meal and staring at her captor.   
“What?” Pharah asks.   
“This. You do not take captives very often.” Mercy gestures with a bound hand to nothing specifically and receives a confused look in response. “When my people take captives we do not sit and eat with them like some… incredibly odd camping excursion. Nor do we offer them one lone piece of jerky from our own pouch.” Her voice is almost as bored as her expression. The fact was Mercy had little to fear. She was sure her army had won the battle earlier and were simply on their way to finding their healing companion.   
“I…” Fareeha gaped before stealing herself, finding a reply. She should not have to take this from her captor. “What your people do is not what my people do. Our people are different. Better. The people you fight with are murders, they have no honor.”   
“My people have done nothing wrong,” she replied quickly, earning a glare from Pharah. “...Or.. perhaps.. I have done nothing wrong?” Mercy thought that was a bit more accurate.   
“You bring men back from Duat-”   
“Purgatory,” Mercy corrected.   
“This is why I do not speak to your people.” Fareeha huffed, putting her hands up in exasperation. Standing, she snuffed out the fire. Pharah put a pike in the sand, tying both Mercy and her horse to it wordlessly. “Go to sleep.” The angel scoffed at this. “I mean it.” Fareeha motioned to kick the angel, but only bared her teeth at her instead. She collected some blankets for herself and spread them on the sand, checking that Mercy was adequately restrained before laying herself down. 

\----

Mercy could not sleep. Not that she’d expected to. The night is bright as all the stars in the heavens seem to stare down at her. The horse has dozed off, and her wings are chaffing against the ropes. The desert is a dangerous thing, she’s been told. Mercy keeps her knees drawn to her chest as her eyes stare into the black horizon. At any hint of movement, at the slightest of breeze her breath would hitch. She longs for the sun to appear. Why must this happen to her? She wonders. Captured by a heathen and tied up with a horse in the middle of unforgiving enemy territory. Her glowing eyes send a glare towards the woman whom she can only assume is asleep.   
At first she thinks her mind is playing tricks on her, but now Mercy is sure she could hear it. It is a hiss, like rushing air. Until it begins to catch, low like the growl of a wolf. “Pharah,” she calls, looking back at her with wide eyes. It isn’t that she wants to ask the heathen for help, but with bound hands she doesn’t have a better option. The growling intensifies just as Pharah stands, pulling her sword from its sheath.   
“Shit,” she mutters, scrambling to untie the angel. It seems to Mercy that the soldier  
recognizes this sound.   
“What is it? What is that thing?” Mercy asks, standing up quickly and looking around as the sound only grows closer in the dark.   
“It is Ammit.. A passer of judgment. She shall not pass before me, we are safe.” If only her tone of voice were as assuring as her words. Pharah's fingers tighten around her blade as she stares past Mercy.   
“Why are you..?” The angel whispers, wondering why she’s receiving such a pointed look.   
It lunges from behind the angel with a ear splitting screech, the horse spooking as it rises on its hind legs with a cry of its own. The creature, Mercy would never know how to describe the thing. Its head was a crocodile, like those who sit and eat in the water, front paws like a great cat, and short back legs of dark skin.   
Pharah waves her sword at the beast as it circles the pair like pray. “Be gone,” the soldier commands shakily. “You have no place here among us! Among me. Pass your judgement where it is needed.”   
It ceases walking, staring up at Pharah with eyes white eyes. “You do not speak for Ammit.” Ammit sits, baring its teeth as it speaks. Mercy wanted never to hear that trembling voice again. It echoes through her ears and shakes the air in her lungs. “You fight for nothing but the glory of blood. Your people need your guidance and you abandon them for the battlefield. You do not stand for us, for your gods, the gods of your people. You are not a soldier, you are a murderer. And you...” It ceases speaking, and then turns its long and scaled head to Mercy. “You worship for your own selfishness. You had honor, you had integrity. You were a good and wise woman. You now follow blindly into wars you know should not be waged for the good of yourself. You are so afraid of losing what you have been given that you seek to destroy the parts of yourself your captors do not condone. You are not a missionary, you are a servant.”   
Mercy’s mouth opens, but it takes her a moment to retaliate with a feeble, “y-you don’t know anything about me!” The creature hisses in disagreement. Pharah uses this time to fish a dagger from her belt, and the glint of the blade catches the creatures eye. It lunges at the soldier, but not fast enough as it soon goes limp, a dull cry falling from its mouth. Pharah tosses the creature’s body, panting heavily. Black blood drips from her hand and stains the sand below.   
“We’re leaving.” Pharah orders, pulling Angela mercilessly by the ropes on her wings. With a bit of a cry, Mercy is hefted onto the horse. The ropes dig painfully into her burned skin, reopening wounds that she could feel beginning to bleed once again. Fareeha jumps onto the horse as well, spurring it on.  
“What was that?!” Mercy’s hands scramble to hold numbly on to Pharah’s armor.   
“Ammit, she brings judgement to sinful men. The deaths in the battlefield must have drawn her out. She will rise again, we must leave quickly.” The horse kicks up sand behind them as the soldier pushed him to ride harder through the desert.   
\-----

It is the smell that made Mercy choke. It smells like fire and rot, flesh burned and charred. They still burned. The corpses seem to be glowing, some of their chests caving in on themselves as their insides flaked into ash.   
“Is this..?” She asks as they come over the a dune, the full view of dead men laid out before them.   
“The battlefield.” Pharah bites down on her own lip to keep from retching.   
Hundreds, no thousands of dead strewn across the landscape, as far as Mercy could see in the night. Like a black smoldering sea. Something had lit them aflame, all of them. No man could have survived, even the sand itself had charred black.   
“This is…” Pharah fished for something to say.   
“Bad?” Mercy supplied quietly, though she herself couldn’t come up with anything else better.   
Pharah leaned down, taking the breastplate of a random soldier in her hands. It was still warm. “Bad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lil longer than the last one, and a lot has changed since the first version of this lol


	3. Ego

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pharah and Mercy arrive at the city.

     “Will you untie me?” She asks. They’ve been riding long enough for the sun to begin creeping up the horizon. The sky glows brilliant orange, painting the dunes in treacherous reds and yellows.

  
     “Obviously not.” Pharah’s eyes have been closed for the better part of an hour, the horse’s swaying goads her into a sleepless lull. “I do not need you flying off to wherever you came from.”

  
     “Obviously.” Mercy rolls her eyes, tapping an annoyed little tune on the soldier’s armor. She’s fallen asleep several times during the night, and is sure the metal plates her captor wears have left a dent in her forehead from the last time she’d used them as a pillow. “You know I haven’t any where else to go, right? Switzerland is a world away. My men have died. All I can do is wait for my people to find me. Unless I’d prefer to trample around the desert in hopes of finding them.”

  
      Mercy has thought long and hard about this. She doesn’t know what to do next. Home is a place she hasn’t gone in a lifetime. The heavens are a place she is kept, not a place she lives. But they are better than being here, being in the middle of no place at all. She hopes someone familiar finds her soon. Anyone but the heathens inhabiting these lands.  
     Fareeha turns and gives Mercy a disgruntled look over her shoulder. “...I do not know if you are being truthful. We will arrive at the city soon enough. There you will only be more thoroughly shackled. If I were you, I’d enjoy the freedoms I have now.”

  
     “I am… a prisoner of war?”

  
     “Indeed.” Pharah replies, looking back at Mercy once again as if to gauge her reaction.

  
     She just sighs, resting her head on the other’s back. It wasn’t as if there was a struggle to be put up. Run away and run to... No where? Pharah silently regarded her lack of panic as a sort of strength. Or a disturbing indication of experience.

  
     Angela decides to ask a question that is actually worth her time. “So.. that creature that attacked us earlier..” Mercy fiddles with the bonds around her wrist as she speaks.

  
     “Ammit.”

  
     “I didn’t know those beasts actually existed.” Angela admits, the halo hovering above her head turns slowly in the daylight. “We were told they were only stories.”

  
     “A woman with wings cannot understand creatures of the sand?” It was critical, as if Pharah were pointing out some integral flaw in the angel’s thinking. “You and that creature are much the same, as much as you may not want to admit it.”

  
     Mercy narrows her blue eyes. “And how is that?”

  
     Fareeha takes a moment. “You are both beasts. Sent by gods to do their bidding.”

  
      The sneer that works its way through the angel’s teeth was audible ten miles off. “Beasts? I am no beast, y-you insolent.. Human.” Mercy struggles around the word, as if insulting someone’s humanity was something she’d watched but never quite participated in. “That thing was a monstrosity. It was animals sewn together in a disgusting show of brutality. I am nothing like that, and I’m sure you know this.”

  
      “Are you not creatures sewn together?” Fareeha prompts, venom in her voice. “You are a woman with the wings of a dove, with eyes that glow like a beast’s, a ring of light that hangs above your head. You are not human, you are not animal. The only thing that separates you and other monstrosities is your divine ego.”

  
     Mercy’s mouth is left agape as she fumbles for a retort. “Do not respond.” The soldier orders, spurring the horse on further.

  
Biting her tongue, the angel stares blankly at the passing sands.

\-----  
     Mercy has nearly melted off the horse’s back by the time they arrive at the city. It’s a more spectacular sight than she expected. There are patches of greenery, the houses made of stone, some bearing symbols and illustrations. There are palms that decorate street corners, all of which are paved. In the distance she can make out a temple. It shines of cleaned rock and golden accents in the mid morning sun, towering stone figures stand resolute at its pillared entrance.

  
     Fareeha shrugs herself down from the horse with a heavy sigh. “We move quickly.” She commands, leading the horse as she walks silently through the empty streets.

  
     This is what puzzles the angel. Empty streets. Desolate wells, unattended stands, quite squares. As if every last citizen has simply vanished from their homes. “There are people in your cities? No?” Mercy asks just to be sure, her voice barely above a whisper. It is the only sound besides the clicking of the horses hooves.

  
     Fareeha gives her a look. It is riddled with warning not to continue this line of thought.  
But of course Mercy proceeds. “They would not have left for the battle, would they? Woman and children should still be here..” She thinks out loud.

  
     “Do not ask so many questions.” Pharah ties the horse to a post outside the temple, allowing it to drink from a trough. Mercy is ruthlessly pulled from the horse by her binds, and she yelps as the rope bites her skin yet again. The building looming above her head inspires a respectful wariness. Impressive statues of animal headed men look across the sands beyond the city with a sort of disapproving scorn. Angela can feel her head lower, as if to appease the already unhappy gods.

  
     “Enter.” The soldier orders, pushing Mercy forward into the temple. Once the door is opened, it takes a few moments for her eyes to adjust. A breeze runs through the hall, which is lined with even more beastly deities and golden pillars.

  
     “These are your gods?” Angela asks, pressing a finger to the cold stone of a dog headed statue. Fareeha does not respond. Why do men worship these beasts? She finds herself wondering, wings shifting uncomfortably.  
“You will follow me.” Pharah begins further into the temple, where the light from outside recedes and ghastly torches are mounted upon the painted walls. The path narrows, and Mercy is lead down a set of stairs. Fareeha trudges through something of a dining room, with a long stone table and embellished wooden seats. Then down another hall, this one lined with rooms, shut doors with confusing hieroglyphs etched into them. After this, finally they seem to have reached their destination.

  
     The prisoner’s quarters are dismal in design. Six stalls, three to a wall, and no window to speak of. They are separated by steel bars, huge latches used to lock each door. “You’re not going to...?” Mercy asks, her eyes wide as she examines what might be her new sleeping arrangement.

  
     In reply, she is once again pulled by her binded wings and tossed roughly into the stall. “Indeed.” Pharah replies, latching it shut. Reaching out with a vice-like grip, she snags the tightly drawn ropes in her hands. “Do not make me regret this.” Pharah cuts the knots on Mercy’s wrists free, and then slices through the tie on her wings as well, which forces a pained gasp from the angel’s mouth.

  
     Her wings flare open, though they are unable to open fully in the suffocating stall. Mercy’s hands grip the cool metal bars confining her. “You can’t keep me in here,” her tone of voice sounds more pleading than she’d intended. Her wings beat haplessly, loosing feathers with every painful jerk. “You can’t just..” Mercy’s glowing eyes scramble across Pharah’s face, shoulders dropping when she receives nothing but a shrug in reply.

  
     The soldier turns on her heel and steps away, stopping to watch the angel from the doorway. Angela kicks the bars, wings flailing behind her widely, metal boots loud against the steel. The flurry of feathers reminds Pharah of watching a caged bird, and with that thought she closes the door behind her.


	4. Presumptions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hardy har har I'm alive  
> WITH A NEW CHAPTER AFTER A MILLION AND TEN YEARS  
> bein a high school senior's hard guys what even is college

     Without a window there is no way to know how slowly time is passing. Mercy removes the metal plates of her armor, leaving her in fitted black pants and a stained undershirt. Her wings need to be tended to and with a grimace she begins plucking the bent feathers. Boots and halo discarded, the angel watches her surroundings, eyes sunken into her head and lips pursed. It is then she hears a cough, and it scares her so thoroughly she finds herself back on her feet. Silence.

  
     Stepping forward, Angela scans the seemingly empty stalls. “...Hello?”

  
     Another cough, louder, a hacking sound that manages to pry itself from someone’s chest. She finds the source of the sound. A blanket tucked into the corner of the stall farthest from her on the opposite side of the room. “E-excuse me?” She leans forward against the bars, very sure that blankets do did not cough.  
     The cover shifts and a man’s face can be made out in the darkness, propped up against the wall behind him. His eyes find the woman’s. They’re little dark eyes, dry as the dessert and yet worryingly watery all the same. “I am going to die.” He states, voice rough and wet, though his lips are cracked and bloody. This doesn’t seem to be very much of a concern to him. More like a weather forecast for the evening, and not even a very bad one.

  
     “You are sick,” Mercy sits cross legged, hands still holding to the metal. “I can help you,” she states suddenly, as if her own gumption surprised her.

  
      The man’s head tilts for a moment, he closes his eyes. Mercy thought he’d died right there and then before another bout of coughing ensures, crippling the brittle man’s frame so violently his shoulders draw together like folding paper. “You.. cannot help me,” he wheezes.

  
     “Sir, I am a doctor,” Mercy urges, reaching a hand between the bar in a weak attempt to reach him. “I can help you. If only she would allow me into your-”

  
     “No!” He stops her with a grating yell, leaning into the wall with wide eyes, waving his withered hands in the air. “You can’t come in here. Y-you can’t touch me.”

  
      It seems his outburst has caught the attention of their captor, who creaks open the door as the man speaks. “Marad, you should not be speaking.” Her voice is uncharacteristically calm, but most notably is how worn it sounds, as if chiding the man has become a common pastime in the last few days.

  
     “And you should not keep such beings as prisoners,” Marad replies in his sandpaper voice, gesturing to Mercy with a nod of the head. “They are not like us, not for you to control. She should not be here.”

  
     Giving nothing but a cold yet defeated stare to the man before turning her back, Pharah lifts a small bag for Mercy to see. “You must eat.” The bag is tossed into her stall.  
The angel reaches for the bag to find dried meat, she scoffs. Does this woman want her to live on jerky for the rest of her life? “And if I don’t?” She challenges, the confinement of her stall bestowing her with an odd sense of security.

  
       Pharah watches her with a cocked brow. “If you haven’t eaten in an hour, then I will make you do so.” She taps her nails on her own arm as if to help count the seconds as they crawl by. After a moment, she turns to the stall behind her, wrenching the door open with the shriek of rusted hinges and sitting beside the rotting man. From the bag she pulls out a ceramic container and a spoon, handing them both to Marad. “You must eat as well.”

  
       The man does his best, but his hands quake as if someone were shaking him by the shoulders. Pharah sighs, not annoyed, but a sound filled with resignation. Wordlessly, she steals the spoon and bowl from the man and feeds him without a moment’s hesitation. Mercy watches from her stall as though watching the sky itself turn green. Pharah’s expression is simple, relaxed eyes and a casual quirk of her lips, completely free of inhibition.

  
      This was something Mercy had done a million times to soldiers, men and women who needed just a little extra help to get by. But watching her captor unabashedly assist a man in such a way is incredibly disorienting. Watching a soldier of anything creed doing so would be at least mildly jarring, considering there were none in Mercy’s ranks who even marginally minded the medical care of their comrades.

  
      Despite her pension for disobedience, Mercy begins gnaw lamely on the jerky. She doesn’t fancy finding out what “making you do so” might entail. Though without any conscious effort, Mercy’s gaze remains transfixed on Pharah, her mental cogs working before grinding to a halt when crystalline eyes accidentally catch deep brown ones. “What?” the soldier barks, as if daring the angel to explain her look of perplextion. Suddenly all hint of delicate compassion is gone, blinked away in less that the moment it took Mercy to find a response.

  
     “Nothing,” gaze falling back to her jerky, she tries to let that be her answer. But the question hangs in the air, and coaxes a breath from her lips. “I just… I have never…”

  
     “Considered that us heathens actually cared for our sick? Had any sort of compassion? Remorse? Felt sympathy or guilt?” Her words comes in quick, rapid succession without pauses or hesitation, as if they’d been itching to be released from confinement. Brows drawn together she returns to Marad to let her statement marinate in the stale air. She is not looking for any sort of response. And most certainly is not wanting one.

  
     The sick prisoner seems to reform, sitting a little straighter, lifting his wilting chin a bit higher; as if the soldier had given him something he could not take for himself. The smallest amount of retribution, a minor restoration of his pride. And Mercy silently wonders what it was that her people had fought to hard to take from a man who couldn’t properly hold a spoon.

  
“I did not mean..” Mercy began, suddenly feeling prompted to change words she never actually got to say.

  
     But two seconds too late, as in her fumbling to correct herself the metal of the man’s prison door was shattering every prospect of renewal. And once again she and Marad are alone. He cocks an unruly brow at Mercy who turns her face to the wall, feeling herself slouch under the weight of her feathered wings.

  
She suddenly feels that any sentence beginning with “I did not mean..” would never have been the right response. Perhaps focusing on what she did need to say would be a far more productive endeavour.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can you see the ship?   
> If you squint?   
> It'll happen   
> Its gettin there

     Pharah pulls the bags together, leaving them by the empty doors. They sit in wait for the sun to rise as the soldier examines her maps. She listens to the silence, the uneasy lack of the jeers of her people, bustling of late night walkers. It is a silence sharp enough to cut through her concentration, make her pace in her quarters, paying too much attention to the sounds of her boots on the stone. She has to go north, plan her way out of the African continent. Past Giza, following the Nile until they reach Mansura, then to Ras-El Bar. A voyage across a sea, landing in Greece, then Italy to Spain and France, and all the places she’s never been to.

     It is a hideous little line across her map, an ugly scar on a much cleaner sheet of paper. Tired of glaring at the scroll, she wraps it up and places it in its tube, tossing it among the other items to carry along with them.

     Making her way down the desolate halls she feels every illustrated eye that decorates the walls watching her. She opens the door to the prisoner’s quarters, finding the angel asleep on the ground. Propping herself up on the wall, she’s wrapped her wings around herself in a mock blanket. Rapping the metal keys against the bars, bright blue eyes flicker open, pushing herself into the floor as if forcing herself into the rock itself. “Get out and get dressed in this. Don’t put that on.” She gestures to the dull halo lying discarded on the ground atop a pile of her armor, shoving a set of commoner’s white robes through the bars.

     Unlocking Marad’s cell, she offers him a gloved hand and pulls him out the door. “We are going to take care of you..” Mercy hears her soothe as the door swings shut behind the pair. After a moment, Mercy removes what she’s been wearing, folding the final remnants of home in the same neat pile she’d pushed her armor into. Sitting in the commoner's clothes ( and silently noting they smelled freshly cleaned ) she awaits her captor’s return.

     It isn’t ten minutes when the door burst open. Pharah’s chest was heaving, and she is scrambling to open Mercy’s cage, her stained hands shaking. They are coated in a sheen of red, it's smeared over her face and inched across her shirt. “Y-you..” She begins to say, only for the gate to explodes open and her red hand to latch onto Mercy’s arm. Before understanding what was occurring, Mercy is being dragged through the hall. “You’re a doctor..” Pharah says, looking back at Mercy as if for confirmation.

     The door opens to reveal a room like any other. There is nothing but a bed and a nightstand sat in the room, Marad’s ragged clothes are discarded on the sheets. Marad is leant against the wall, his eyes wide and unmoving, staring past the two of them in spotless white robes. His forehead is decorated with a burn so deep his blackened cranium peaked through, it shares too close a likeness to a cross to be denied. Hands are tacked to the walls by gleaming red blades, they drip lame trickles of crimson on the ground. The last hint of movement in this paralyzing portrait.

     Angela moves forward to touch him, but not before Pharah’s gloved hand catches her own. “Can you.. Can you fix him? Without touching him?” She asks, her face slack in a somewhat haunted expression, her eyes searching.

     “I…” Angela looks at the man, who is, from her perspective, clearly dead. There isn’t anything she could do without her higher ups knowing about it. “..No… I cannot… But can’t I just?” She tries to reach, only for her hand to be yanked back by Pharah’s once again.

     “Do not.” She orders. At the confused tilt of her head, Pharah sighs. From the wardrobe she pulls something that looked like an old man’s cane. Stepping away and bracing her knees, Mercy does likewise, raising her wings as if preparing to defend herself. Pharah takes a breath and extends the cane towards the body, and once it gets close, the body begins to cave. It is the smell that strikes Mercy first. The smell of death, of decay. The body seems to melt, being eaten from within by unseen magots until the last of it lays in a puddle of bone and blood and sinew, making a wet popping sound as it continues to degrade.

     Mercy’s stands stalk still, pale hands covering her mouth as she watches the horrifying display. If she were made of weaker stuff she’d surely have lost her lunch. “Oh mein Gott …”

     Pharah lifts the end of the cane, which has become little more than rotted wood, weak and moist though it hadn’t even touched Marad’s skin. The soldier directs the decomposed end back into the sludge, probing around until one of the gleaming daggers reveals itself. The red cross glitters proudly up at her.

     “We don’t know how you all made this happen. We call it Alainhilal… The Decay.” Pharah tosses the melting cane, leaving it to destroy itself. “We must be going now.”

\----

      “No.” And three steps back.

      “It isn’t an option.”

     “No. Nein. No.” Mercy pleads as the creature bends its head down to her own. It has slobbering jaws and big absent eyes.

     “It is not an option.” Pharah persists as she loads her camel with the last of her packs. Mercy is staring hers down.

      “Can’t we just take the horses?” Mercy pleads, shifting on her feet as the creature tries to nibble her hair. Bending backwards, it does in fact manage to slobber all over her robes. The sound of disgust that rises from Mercy’s throat only coaxes a snort of relative amusement from Pharah. Who covers that up as best she can with a fake cough. It seems even the stupor that’s settled over her since this morning's events could be broken by Mercy’s displeasure.

      “Horses are slower. They require too much water.” She explains, lifting a kicking mercy onto the camel with no hesitation, the angel doing her best to hit her with bound wings. Her legs are tied into the stirrups. Once the angel is thoroughly restrained she looks at Pharah, utterly peeved by this turn of events, her feathers puffing up like a disgruntled bird.

     The soldier lifts herself onto her own camel, and in this brief distraction Mercy begins to hopelessly command her stead. “No! Nononono!” Pharah turns, watching in amusement as the camel attempts to lay down, bending his knees and nearly toppling Mercy off.

     Of course, little did Mercy know that Pharah had purposely given her the most annoying camel. And knowing this, the soldier openly lets out a laugh, commanding the camel, “aelaa aelaa!” As he wobbles back to his feet mercy grips the saddle with a look of mortal terror, inspiring another chuckle from Pharah as she spurrs her own camel on. Their reins are tied together and Mercy’s followed in a reluctant pursuit.

     Mercy sighs, disliking the dull rocking back and forth riding this animal seems to ensue. “His name is Moishe,” Pharah informs her.

     “What does that-”

     “Unfruitful land.”

     “...and your-”

     “Maat. It means justice.”

     “Because of course she gave unfruitful land to me and justice to herself,” Mercy thought bitterly, glaring down at Moishe. She watches Maat’s rear sway from side to side, silently noting her staff is strapped to his flank.

 

\---

     The sun is melting into the sands when the approaching city of Mansura comes into view. It peers over the dunes like a shining stone paradise on the horizon. The lazy waters of the nile run besides them, their dark reflections shivering as the sky turns the water into the most brilliant of oranges.

     Pharah stops both their camels, and Mercy groans. “We can make it there, it isn’t that far off. It is a mile away, if that.” She ignores her, quite pointedly so.

     She unties Mercy’s legs and plops her onto the sand. And immediately, she begins pitching a tent large enough for the both of them. Mercy sits, the camel laying down beside her and oncy again trying to eat her hair.

     Mercy scrambles away from Moishe once the tent was ready, covering her head with her hands. Pharah places her hands on her hips and let out a breath once she’s finished with the tent, looking mighty proud of herself.

     “Ok. You should bathe.” She nods towards the Nile and tosses Mercy a bar of soap from one of the packs.

     “What?” The soap lands in her hands like rock in deep water.


End file.
